The two story community center, with large, expansive windows, was cattycorner to the pizza restaurant. Like all community centers, there were plenty of empty rooms, some of which were used for storage; it was an ideal place to hang out. It was in a position where Dahl could sit there in the corner, out of sight behind a stack of folding tables, and observe out the window, tracking the comings and goings of the shopping plaza. It was close enough that he had a good view of the pizza restaurant, yet far away enough he could slip out if he had to. He was pretty safe at the moment. Nobody noticed him enter and take the elevator to the second floor. He could probably stay there for days if he needed. Unless they planned on doing a room to room search to every building in the complex, he was good for now.
He still had food left from Vegas. It wouldn’t last much longer and it was already probably starting to go bad, so he made the last of his hamburger makings, and finished off the stale, greasy onion rings, then changed clothes. A change of clothes would be helpful, but it wouldn’t make him disappear either.
It was about a quarter till six, less than two hours before meeting time. There was no way of knowing if Roger would act on the message, or for that matter, if he had even received it. One police cruiser pulled in to the lot, and parked in front of the pizza restaurant. An officer emerged from the car, and returned several minutes later with a pizza box. Dahl was understandably paranoid, but the officer was probably off-shift and picking up dinner. Another drove slowly across the lot and then left. Aside from that, there appeared to be no abnormal police activity. Rest assured, if Roger ratted him out, there would be some staging going on, right now. And they wouldn’t necessarily be in marked cars. They like vans. Big white vans with no windows. Big enough to hold a SWAT unit. And they would be close.
The time drew near. That covered pickup was a tad suspicious. It was right outside the front door. There was no driving access to the rear, but if they were planning something, certainly they would have the rear covered. Nobody could be seen maneuvering back there, and he had a pretty clear view.
The time was well chosen. It was dark. With less than three minutes to go, judging by the wall clock, which may or may not have been set right, that Jeep drove up. The Jeep was familiar. He had seen it parked out in the desert sand during the matches, but had never connected it with its owner. Then Roger emerged from it. Roger was tallish, large framed, and bearded, with shoulder length hair. He looked like a somewhat refined mountain man.
At this point in time, Dahl had to trust that Roger was on the up and up. At least he came, thank god. Dahl grabbed his bag, and made a quick exit down the auxiliary staircase to an exit only door below. Thinking quickly, he grabbed a metal fire extinguisher tag, twisted it off and used it to block the doorjamb, so he could re-enter the building if he needed without going through the main door, which was probably already locked for the night anyway.
Avoiding eye contact, Dahl made a beeline to a row of booths at the end of the crowded restaurant. If Roger had half a brain, he would secure a corner seat that is as out of view as possible. Fortunately, he had. Dahl took a seat on the other side of the booth, facing away from the crowd.
“Thanks for coming,” Dahl said.
“I hear you’re in a heap of trouble,” Roger replied.
“That would be accurate. So is that standing offer still standing?”
A server appeared at the table ready to take an order. “Large draft beer please,” Roger said to the server. Then he spoke to Dahl. “You’re probably tight on cash, huh?”
“Tight yeah, but I got some,” Dahl replied.
“Let’s get an extra-large combo. And whatever you want to drink.” Roger replied.
“Damn, I’d like a beer, but...”
“My guess is you haven’t had a damn beer in a while, and you probably won’t be getting many opportunities to drink damn beers in the immediate future, so my advice is take it while you can get it.”
Take it while you can get it. That was the same advice the other GIs used to give when they were out on the town, trolling for women. “Yeah sure, I’ll have the same.” Dahl said to the waitress.
The waitress was Asian. She had light brown skin, and thin features. She looked nervous as she wrote down the order. Asians stick out like a sore thumb in this place. Most of the servers are white or Hispanic. In any case, nervousness didn’t bode well. An Asian server? Could she actually be a cop, and not a server? It just didn’t fit right. She walked away with the order.
“So,” Roger said, continuing his previous train of thought, “There is a little bit of a problem. The short answer is yeah, I got a merc gig available in Darfur, but how the hell am I going to get you out of the country? You’re a wanted man.”
“What about a new identity?”
“That’s sort of out of the realm of what I can do. Those can be gotten, but not through me.”
“So, basically, I’m fucked?”
The waitress returned with two frosty mugs of beer. “Go ahead and bring us another round, please.” Roger said to the Asian girl. “Well, I have a thought. I know this guy in LA, and he’s a high profile private investigator. He does International work. A little birdie tells me that he uses people, mercs even, to do deep cover work for some of his cases. You might talk to him. If anything, he could probably get you that ID you want. He might even have a job for you. I don’t know. But this is his card.” Roger slipped a business card across to Dahl. The name read Simon Bowe. Arrow Services. Aon Center, 707 Wilshire Boulevard, Suite 5001, Los Angeles, California.
“That’s the high rent district,” Dahl said.
“This guy’s a heavy hitter.”
Dahl downed his beer. “I didn’t do it.”
“I’m not judging you. But I am glad to hear that. I’ll take you on your word.”
There was some ruckus starting at the front. Uniformed Federal agents started pouring in the door.
“Oh fuck!” Dahl exclaimed. “Did you rat me out?”
Roger nodded negatively. “Easy hoss, they’re not here on my account. Just stay calm.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Dahl said under a strained, muted breath.
“They’re carding the staff. It’s a goddamn immigration shakedown. They just hauled two Mexicans out in cuffs.”
“You’ve got to be fucking joking.”
“Just pretend like you own the place.”
“You positive they’re from immigration?”
“Yeah. Pretty sure. But...”
“But what?”
“They are Federal agents, so, just the same, you might want to see if you can slip out the back door.”
The agents drew near as Dahl casually exited the table and headed to the rear of the restaurant through the kitchen door. He wasn’t challenged, as some of the cooks were already in a state of panic over the approaching assemblage of federal agents. He popped out the rear door, and noticed that the Asian girl who was their server was standing there in a state of panic, looking around. They made eye contact.
One attribute that Dahl had was the ability to recognize a situation for what it was, immediately. There were two things at play here: First, a girl who is obviously at odds with the immigration authorities, and in imminent danger of being detained by them and deported. Secondly, there were a cluster of federal agents, and Dahl himself was a sitting target. He could see the shadows of the agents approaching from the side. It would all be over in about ten seconds, at least for one of them, and very possibly for both.
“Quickly,” Dahl whispered to the girl. “Throw your apron away.” She quickly complied and tossed her apron aside. Dahl threw his travel bag aside. He grasped her, and engaged in a passionate kiss. “Trust me, just go along with this,” he gently whispered in her ear.
The agents finally rounded the corner, one female agent, accompanied by a male agent. They stopped, watched briefly, and then turned around and walked back. “Nothing back there, just a couple kids making out.”
“Come with me,” Dahl ordered, as he led her by the hand around some dense shrubbery, working his way back to the community center. Nobody seemed to take notice as they slipped in the exit only side door on the corner of the community center building. “We’ll be safe here.” He escorted her up the staircase, and through an unlocked door to the same room where he camped out before during the day, put his bag down, and sat on the carpet. The girl sat next to him.
“Thank you,” she murmured, with a slight accent. “I was so scared.” The girl looked tall from a distance, but her thin figure accented her height, and the high platform boots she wore only added to the affect. She had long, dark reddish brown hair, and full lips. It was hard to place her ethnicity. She didn’t quite look Japanese, but she didn’t quite look Chinese either, nor did she appear to be from any part of Southeast Asia.
“What’s your story?”
“My story?”
“What are you running from?”
“My student visa has been revoked. It has to do with my father’s political connections. The State Department has orders to deport me.”
“Where are you from?”
“South Korea.”
“What’s your name?”
“So-Young. Means beautiful and everlasting. What is your name?”
“Alex.”
“So, what is your story?”
“I’ve been accused of a murder I did not commit.”
“You do not go to court to plead your case?”
“I did plead my case, but it was under military law. It doesn’t work the same as it does out here. They already convicted me. In fact, they are looking for me.”
She looked out the window in to the darkness. There were flashing lights, and agents milling around in the darkness loading several handcuffed individuals in to a bus. “That could have been me out there, loading on to a bus, headed towards some detention center. I don’t feel safe here anymore.”
“Trust me, you’re a lot better off than I am right now.”
She looked at him. He had hard, angular features, but he did not look like a bad person. He looked young. Like her own name, so young. He admitted that he is an accused killer on the run. Yet, his presence is comforting. She felt a commanding presence of inner strength and resolve. She felt safe next to him, and she hadn’t even known him more than ten minutes.
The host family, she can trust. It’s a different host family than she is registered with. The agents already visited the host family of record. They said they hadn’t seen her and believed she returned to Korea. But she has to work. She can’t stay there for free forever.
“Is there a telephone here?” She asked.
“I’m sure there is. I didn’t really look. The closer you stay to this room, the better. I think they’re all gone for the night, but I’m not positive. You got a car?”
“I have a car. But I have to call my host family. Let them know I’ll be late.”
“Okay, but be careful.”
So-Young removed her tall boots, and walked silently towards the door of the large room, which was cluttered with stacked desks and tables. She cracked the door open. The upper hallway was dark and silent. There was a corner office adjacent to the room, which had a desk with a telephone. The building and most of its décor dated back to the sixties. The phone itself was still a rotary dial. She dialed the number and listened to the other end ring. A trembling female voice answered. “Hello?”
“Mary Grace, this is So-Young. I just wanted to let you know I’ll be late tonight.”
“So-Young, listen, there is a problem.”
“What problem?”
“Immigration. They are here. Waiting in cars outside. It is not safe for you to come here.”
“Oh no.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in some building by the restaurant.”
“I saved your passport and your important things. I will keep them for you. But go, you can’t come here.”
A tear came from her eyes. She wiped it quickly. Be strong. She lowered the handset back on the telephone, and silently walked back in to the room, and sat back down on the carpet next to Dahl. “Immigration is waiting at my host home. They found out where I was living. I have no hope anymore.”
“I’m sorry.” Dahl said. He was busy formulating his own plan. On one hand it was a little hard to be empathetic about her situation given his own status, but, on the other hand, she could potentially be an asset. Quit fooling yourself Dahl, he thought to himself. She isn’t an asset. She could only be baggage. But he looked at her. Those eyes. That face. Those lips. He felt an intense, animal attraction to her. He felt very protective. Even in the tense, make-or-break moments of the fake embrace and kiss, he had to admit to himself that it didn’t feel fake. She was warm. She had an inner fire, and inner passion that passed into his body like an electric shock. She had both strength, and innocence at the same time. Dahl composed himself. The beer was starting to wear off. Rational thought was of primary importance. She had a car. They were waiting for her at home. She called home.
She called home. “Hey,” Dahl said. “By chance, did you tell them where you were?”
“I told them I was in some building near the restaurant.”
His eyes widened. He jumped up and looked outside. They traced the damn call. They had the house’s phone tapped. “We have to leave right now.”
“Is it a good idea?”
“They are headed here right now.”
“The family would never tell them...”
“They don’t need to. They had the phone tapped.”
Just then, the noise of keys rattling in the downstairs lockset could be heard. It was a city building. They probably got the keys from the city. “What do we do?” She whispered.
“Stay back in the corner. Hide. I have a plan.”
“Okay.”
Dahl fished out the 1911 .45 automatic he took from Huff, chambered a round, and waited on the inside of the room, next to the door.
They only sent one agent. The other agents had their hands full. Why send two? They were only expecting a slightly built Korean girl. There was little to no excuse for the 225 pound agent to not be able to apprehend and cuff a 110 pound girl. Right?
What Agent Morse wasn’t expecting was armed resistance by a one-man agent of destruction. He elected to start his search working from the front doorway, through the first floor to the end, then upstairs, to drive the girl in to a corner with no escape. After ten agonizing minutes, he opened the door of the storeroom, and walked in. This was the last room.
He felt a presence behind him as he surveyed the room, and then felt the cold metal of the muzzle of the pistol staring him straight in to his face as Dahl came in to view.
“Put your fucking hands up, turn around, and face the wall.” Dahl ordered as he leveled the gun, unwavering, unflinching. His eyes read one thing. He meant it. The agent trembled and turned around. Dahl brought the slide of the pistol down hard on the crown of his head, instantly incapacitating him. The agent had cuffs, but cuffing a subject by one’s self while holding a gun is a very risky move. Quickly, Dahl handcuffed the agent’s hands together behind his back as the agent started to come back in to consciousness. So-Young approached. “Find me some tape.”
So-Young rifled through the office desk next door and returned with some masking tape. “This is the biggest tape I could find.”
“That will work.” Dahl wrapped the tape in loops around the man’s head so he could not yell or speak. “Really sorry to have to do this to you, it’s a real shitty deal I know, but you’re going to have to take a rest here for a while, okay?”
Hot damn. The man had a prime piece of weaponry in holster. A Sig Sauer P226 nine millimeter pistol. Not that the .45 isn’t a good piece, but he’d take the finely made Sig with its high capacity magazine, double action first pull capability, and superior controllability over the ratty, worn 1911, made by whatever arms contractor back in World War Two. “Trade ya, buddy.” Dahl spoke. As a final gesture, he stripped the Motorola handheld radio from his belt, rolled his torso over to reveal his nametag, and rolled him back over. The man’s name was Morse. “Come on, we gotta go. Dahl peered out the window. The rear exit wasn’t covered. They quickly sped down the corner stairwell, through the door, and in to the parking lot.
They weren’t looking for a man and a woman. They were looking for a single girl. Or, an agent escorting a single girl. There was neither an agent, nor a single girl in the vicinity, so they didn’t pay much attention. Besides, Morse has this one. They focused on more pressing tasks, and they were all starting to leave.
“Where’s your car?” Dahl asked.
“The brown Toyota. Over there.”
“Get in and drive.”
So-Young took the driver’s seat and fired up the 1977 Toyota Corolla, painted in the ugliest puke tan brown color one could imagine. “Where are we going?”
“Head for Los Angeles. 395 I think. That’s closest. Just get on it and head west.”
The drone of the engine was overcome by a garbled radio transmission from the handheld radio. “Do you know the name of the street we were on, the one out in front of the shopping center?” Dahl asked.
“It is called Inyokern Boulevard.”
“Thanks.” Dahl keyed the mic and spoke in to the radio. “This is Morse. Suspect is on foot, running north on Inyokern boulevard.”
“Roger,” a crackling voice replied.
Dahl’s initial reaction was to throw the radio out the window, but why do that? It could be useful at some point. He turned it off and placed it under the seat.
“I’m getting low on gas. I’m going to have to get some soon. I’m not sure I have enough cash to fill the tank.” So-Young said.
“I’ve got some.”
It would have been nice to have the warm carpet of the community center available to sleep for the night. More importantly, to sleep for free for the night. Dahl still had fairly close to the two hundred and fifty dollars he liberated from Huff’s wallet, but start spending it on motels, and it will evaporate in a hurry, but spending a night out in the cold, especially with So-Young, was not a desirable situation.
The last book that Dahl had read was George Orwell’s 1984. If he only knew how commonplace surveillance had come to be in this very year. Government installations. The major commercial centers. The five star luxury hotels. They have closed circuit television monitoring systems. You didn’t have to worry about roadside motels though. Rest assured, the day would come when even the roadside motels would have cameras on every corner, but that’s probably a few years off. Hopefully, many years off.
It wasn’t the first time he’d contemplated the situation. Urban SERE training was the first time he had the idea. Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape. They put you on a truck with the canvas cover drawn so you can’t tell where you are. They drive you several hours and dump you out in the middle of the woods someplace. You might not even be in the same state, and you often weren’t. You had a certain amount of time to get back to your unit on your own without being caught. They had evaluators camped out in the woods to intercept you. Also at the bus and train stations. Plus you had nothing except the clothes on your back. No cash, just your ID card and dog tags.
The smart guys, they stole cars. They weren’t supposed to, trainees were supposed to return on foot. Except the timeline they calculated could only be met by running at full speed for twenty four hours. Fuck that.
Car or no car, you have to sleep someplace. You can’t sleep in the car, it’s stolen. No, you ditch it a few blocks away from the base, and you sleep in a motel for the night. How do you do that with no money? Simple. Motels are rarely at full occupancy, especially the fleabags. Motel rooms aren’t elaborately secured, particularly when they don’t have anyone inside them. Especially the fleabags, which often don’t even have a deadbolt. Those can be defeated with a small knife or a plastic credit card. When they can’t, there is another way in. The maids. They come through and clean. They aren’t paid to track which rooms are rented out and which aren’t. They know that the block of rooms on the east side, second floor are kept in reserve. They skip those automatically. Otherwise, if they know a room isn’t rented out, they skip it. If they’re not sure, they knock and take a look. If it’s occupied, they skip it. If it’s unoccupied but lived in, they make the room up.
It’s probably best to stay east of the San Gabriel Mountains for tonight, in Hesperia. Cross over the Cajon Pass to San Bernardino or Chino, and things start to get seedy in a hurry. Plus that’s probably a good place to find the right motel. Then, he saw it up ahead, on the right side.
“Hey, see that motel?” Dahl asked.
“Yeah.” So-Young replied.
“Take the next road off the highway to the right. Park on the side of the road in front of the gas station.”
“What are we doing?”
“Hopefully getting a place to sleep tonight so we won’t freeze out here.” She parked the car. “Follow me,” Dahl said, as he locked and closed the door.
“Isn’t the office on the other side?”
“Yeah, but we need to conserve cash.”
“Huh?”
The back rooms facing the highway were vacant. They were the last to rent out, because, in addition to being hidden from the office view, there were facing the highway and thus noisy. As far as which level to take was up in the air. The rooms had individual heat pump units sticking out of the wall. The lower level was had the advantage of being easier to escape from if challenged, but on the other hand, the upper level would be warmer, and a running heat pump in an unused room might be noticed. Dahl elected to stay with the lower level.
The lock was a plain Jane beveled bolt, which popped open easily with Huff’s pocketknife. “Don’t turn on the lights. Just get used to the dark. Crack the shade open slightly if you need light.”
“I need to use the restroom.”
“Fine.” There was a small couch and a recliner sofa sitting off the side of the bed, and some extra blankets inside of a cabinet. For a fleabag motel, this was nicely equipped. Dahl grabbed the extra set of blankets, and placed them on the sofa.
So-Young came out. “You can have the bed, I will take the sofa,” she offered.
Don’t argue, Dahl figured. It occurred to Dahl that he really needed a shower. He took a long, hot, soapy shower, and tiptoed to the bed, naked, carrying his folded clothes. He normally slept naked, at least when he was in a bed. Clothes don’t get cleaner by sleeping in them. Give them a chance to dry.
Of course, it was impossible to focus on sleep with So-Young curled up under covers on the sofa. She looked like an angel. He imagined holding her in his arms. Don’t get too comfortable with the thought. Don’t get too close. Your life is at stake. He could only wonder what was going on in her mind. Sleeping in a room with a strange man. Koreans have large families. She’s probably slept in the same room with brothers before. But it’s not the same thing. Not at all.
The room was cold. Despite the covers, it was still cold. But it was ten times better than the last few days. Hell, the last three weeks. Dahl drifted off in to a deep sleep. He felt warm, finally. They say prisoners of war have beautiful, fun, encouraging dreams when they fall asleep, and that people living comfortable, safe lives are the ones that tend to have the nightmares and dreams of action and adventure. It’s the subconscious brain’s way of balancing things out between wakefulness and sleep. The fact of the matter is that Dahl had been under such extreme stress lately that his stomach physically hurt. He felt nauseated. Sick. The way you feel when you are in an extreme amount of trouble. Which he was. But there was some indescribable feeling of salvation. Something to look forward to, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. At least, that is, he couldn’t put his finger on it until the sun’s rays poked through in the morning. That feeling of warmth wasn’t imaginary. He felt warm skin, and soft breathing next to him. Touching him. Laying on his bare chest. So-Young was sound asleep, entangled in his left arm.
Don’t get too close. Don’t get too personal. He was conflicted. She felt so good in his arms. He wanted to hold her. Kiss her. Make love to her. Dahl had been in love a few times before. Nothing ever really worked out. He was a fighter, not a lover. But he was a man, one with an uncanny animal presence and attraction. To So-Young, it was like sleeping in the mane of a lion, a protective lion with immense strength and utmost devotion.
“Just so you know, I have a fiancé. In Korea.”
Dahl was silent for a couple minutes. Of course it’s too good to be true. Things like this just don’t happen. “It doesn’t surprise me. So then why are you still here, running from immigration?”
“It’s an arranged marriage. My parents allowed me to travel with them over here before they were sent back. The rest of the families, both of them, expect me to return to marry this man. I don’t want to do it.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. I think at some point, I won’t have much choice. You saw what happened last night. They will just keep coming, and keep coming.”
“You at least have a home to return to. I do not. Right now, I’m not even supposed to exist in the state of freedom.”
“Then we must go separate ways then,” So-Young said in a stoic voice.
“Yeah. But, I think not quite yet. I need to get to Los Angeles. I need to talk to a man that can hopefully help me. Stay with me, at least until I have had a chance to talk to him. And I will help you get a safe return to Korea.”
“How? How can you do that?”
“You have a Korean passport right?”
“Yes, but no valid American visa.”
“You show up with an airline ticket to Korea, with a valid Korean passport, they’ll let you on the plane, and they don’t care what your American visa status is. Hell, immigration wouldn’t touch that. Otherwise, they’re just going to chase you, and catch you eventually, then you will probably stay in some kind of detention center, possibly a jail, for months, even years until they send you back.”
“My passport is back in Ridgecrest with that family.”
“Stay away from that place for a while, until things cool down. Otherwise, you know what might happen.”
It’s not like So-Young was entirely unused to tall buildings. Seoul has its share, but damn, 707 Wilshire Boulevard was towering. It looked almost like a big, black, engorged square needle poking in to the sky. The AON center. It isn’t the tallest building in the world, or even the country, but it’s on the list. There were an awful lot of suits walking in and out of the lobby.
You can’t just go up to the 50th floor. You have to have a reason, as Dahl discovered when he tried to take the elevator. You had to pass through a security checkpoint to get to the elevator that would take you there.
Dahl dialed the number on the lobby telephone. A lady with a British accent answered. “Arrow Services, how may I help you?”
“Hi, I’d like to meet with Simon Bowe please.” Dahl replied.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Um, no, that’s why I’m calling. I need to make one.”
“Well, Simon Bowe is a very busy man, I can probably schedule something for... this week does not look good, let me see...”
“I’m standing in the lobby.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m standing in the lobby of the building. I need to talk to Mr. Bowe and it is fairly urgent.”
“What is your name, and what is the nature of your business?”
“My name is Alex Dahl, and I’m looking for a job. Roger from Ridgecrest sent me.”
“Simon doesn’t just take...”
“Can you please just tell him?”
“All right, wait one moment please.” There was a long, several minute pause. Dahl felt out of place and under dressed in the lobby of the corporate high rise. He stuck out like a sore thumb. Plus, although freshly showed from the night before, his clothes were starting to obtain an odor. “Mr. Dahl?”
“Yes.”
“Can you please spell your last name?”
“D-A-H-L.”
“Thank you. One moment please.” There was another long pause. This wasn’t sounding good. He expected armed security guards to jump on him at any moment, tackling him to the ground at gunpoint. Cuffing him. Pummeling him with batons. He was starting to survey the lobby for an escape route. The fat guard would be an easy take. The tall black guy would be more challenging. There were enough people that he could run interference through them if he needed. “Mr. Dahl?”
“Yes?”
“Simon will meet with you. Inform security that you are heading to Suite 5001 and they will let you through.”
Dahl exited the elevator and walked up to Suite 5001. He heard a buzzer click and the massive wooden panel doors swung open, and he walked inside. The British accented lady was behind a large wooden desk with a computer terminal on it. She was wearing a flashy, white bell-bottom slacks and vest combination that looked as though it might have been in style ten years ago, maybe even twenty. There wasn’t a whole lot more to the office than the reception area and a couple rooms.
“Simon is waiting for you. Please go through the door to your left,” the woman directed.
Simon Bowe was standing. He was medium height, very slightly rotund, and had a round face with close trimmed hair, and glasses. He was dressed in what could best be described as a leisure suit, complimenting the receptionist’s garb almost exactly. His office had obviously seen some sort of modern interior decorator. The empty wall behind his desk had numerous protruding artistic panels with hidden lighting in them, more resembling a hotel ballroom entrance than a personal office. He took a seat on his chair. His right arm appeared to be resting on some hidden object under the desk.
“Have a seat, Mr. Dahl,” Bowe welcomed, in a distinct British accent. Dahl sank back in an egg-shaped chair that was more like a basket than a chair. It was actually fairly hard to move around in and stand up from, and Dahl could guess why he might want to have chairs with such characteristics in his office, and he had a fairly good guess about that might be hidden under his desktop. “So tell me, I’m intrigued. Truly. Why would a fugitive from justice, wanted for first degree murder, want from me?”
Dahl cringed. He was at a loss for words.
“Oh, I know who you are. Don’t worry. You didn’t try to hide your identity from me. I appreciate that. I respect it.”
“Then you know my situation,” Dahl replied. “Roger says that you hire mercs to do deep cover operations. I’m not a merc, but I can do deep cover operations.”
“Oh can you? have you ever done a deep cover operation?”
“Well...”
“Exactly. How well do you know Roger?”
“I know him pretty well.”
“What’s Roger’s last name?”
Dahl turned red. “I actually don’t know.”
Bowe smiled. “If you did know, I might have a problem with you. And Roger would definitely have a problem with you. Roger doesn’t share his last name. He has one, the name he uses to receive mail and sign paperwork. But it isn’t his real name. He only gives out his assumed last name if he doesn’t trust you.”
“I don’t understand?”
“Roger is the real deal. He was a former CIA operative overseas. He may have told you some stories. They are made up. The real stories are far stranger, and much more difficult to accept.”
“How do you know him?”
“I used to work with him. I was formerly with British Intelligence. MI5. We’re both retired. Sort of. Roger more than myself, as may be obvious.”
The fact that Bowe is sharing this much information is positive. Obviously, Bowe’s objective is not to send him in to the slammer. “So, do you have a use for me?”
“I would like to know what happened to land you in your current pickle.”
“Last year, during the invasion of Grenada, I jumped in with my unit to secure the island’s main military airport. My company commander did not jump with us. But he did jump, from another ship. Sometime during the jump, either right before or just after, someone managed to steal my sidearm pistol. I was a sixty gunner. And when the rest of us were fighting our way to clear the airport, someone shot our company commander with my pistol. I was framed. Nothing I did or said affected the court martial panel board’s decision. They sentenced me initially to life in Leavenworth. And they were going to give me death.”
“Who do you think shot your company commander, and why?” Bowe relaxed in his seat. Finally, his right arm emerged and rested on the chair armrest.
“I don’t know for sure, but I think it is a couple members of our platoon, a sergeant squad leader and a corporal from his squad. Captain Lewis was black, and I know they kept it mostly a secret, but they were some kind of Nazi extremists.”
“I see. How did you escape?”
“The opportunity presented itself. We had a base wide alert, and all of the staff from the stockade was outside and tied up with the alert, except for this one MP, who was an asshole. While everyone else was gone, he came for me, to do things I don’t even want to talk about. He beat the crap out of me every night with his nightstick. Anyway, he tried to cuff me so he could fuck me in the ass, and I overpowered him, and escaped in his uniform and personal vehicle.”
“That’s quite resourceful, I must say. Why did you come to California?”
“Roger was the only one I knew that I thought might be able to help me.”
“I see. What do you think your chances are of clearing your name?”
“In the foreseeable future, zero. I can’t live as Alex Dahl for the rest of my natural life.”
“So I understand, and when I say this, I don’t mean that I heard it on the news, but one of my sources says that the MP guard you escaped from was found hanging upside down, naked, by handcuffs around his ankles, locked in your cell, with a night stick up his arse.”
“You found this out?”
“Let’s just say that I got a slight heads up that you might be swinging around here to pay me a visit.”
“Then why did your receptionist give me the blow off treatment?”
“Let me turn that around, why do you think? And you don’t have to answer that now. Maybe as you get into it, it will be more apparent.”
Dahl breathed a sigh of relief. “As I get into it, huh.”
Mr. Dahl, you are very atypical of the type of people I hire. You are in your early to mid-twenties. Most are hardened mercs, and are, by far, older and more experienced than you. See where I’m going with this? Far older. I actually think you could fill a unique niche in my assemblage of talent. You’re tough enough; you’ve proved that. You’re clever enough. And you’re desperate enough. All these factors, to me, equal effectiveness and loyalty. Don’t get me wrong, trust has to be earned. You will be on a very short leash at first, before we turn you out on your own. So, congratulations Mr. Dahl, you have earned a slot, a highly probationary slot, on our team. Do you accept?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good.”
Bowe reclined back in to his chair and thought a bit. “You say you escaped with that MP’s uniform and car.”
“That’s right.”
“Got any weapons?”
“Well, long story, I don’t have his .45 automatic anymore, but I scored a Sig Sauer off an immigration agent.”
“I see. Nice work. But ditch it. It’s poison to you now. We only use clean, untraceable equipment, unless we have a specific reason for doing otherwise.”
“I understand.”
Bowe picked up a telephone receiver and hit an intercom button. “Carly, would you please take Mr. Dahl through in processing procedures? He’ll need an identity.” Bowe lowered the headset. “Report to Miss Logan out front, and do as she tells you.”
Dahl shook Bowe’s hand and exited his office, shutting the door behind him. “Mr. Dahl, please go through the second door to your right, the solid one, and take a seat. I’ll be in shortly,” the woman at the desk directed. The room looked almost like an exam room. There was a table, and cameras. Big cameras. And various medical supplies.
Carly Logan entered the room and shut the door. “Please remove all of your clothes and stand in this circle please.” Dahl shyly removed his clothes, and placed them on a chair, and stood in the circle as instructed. It’s not like Dahl had never removed his clothes in front of a woman before, but certainly not under these particular circumstances.
She took a light, and examined his body; starting from his face, downward to his legs, then walked to the rear and worked from the feet up, speaking into a voice recorder. “No tattoos, birth mark on the left buttock, some recent scarring on the shoulders and arms.” She took several shots with the camera from different angles. She traded the recorder for a light. “Open your mouth wide, please.” She examined his teeth. “Any crowns?”
“No ma’am.”
She picked up the voice recorder “No dental abnormalities. Composite fillings in number five and six. Tonsils are present.” She put away the light and placed on a pair of latex gloves, and pulled up a chair.
“Um, uh, ma’am, I have to warn you, I have this reaction to that kind of exam, that, uh...”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I might, you know...”
“Well, if you have to do a ‘you know’, please keep it in this cup.” She said has she handed him a specimen cup. “This will only take a couple of minutes. Spread your legs please.” She placed the voice recorder on a metal table, and pressed resume. “Prostate is normal, no swelling observed, no polyps present, genital and urinary system appears normal, although hyperactive erectile function is noted...”
“Oh, god!”
“Oh my, you do have a hair trigger, don’t you? Here.” She handed him a paper towel. “Just toss those in the bin will you, and have a seat on the table.” She hit his knees and elbows with a rubber mallet. “Reflexes are more pronounced than normal.” She wrote down a few notes. “Let me just get your blood pressure and temperature, and then go stand over by that backdrop.”
She walked out of the room, and returned shortly with two collared shirts. One was light tan, the other dark brown. She held them up to his chest. “Let’s go with this one. Put it on, please.” He put the light tan shirt on. She wheeled the camera assembly over, and took two photographs.
“Okay. Please get dressed and report back in the lobby. Oh wait, sorry, forgot.” She pulled a drawer open, and pulled out a needle and a set of small paper strips.
“Ouch!” Dahl yelped.
“Blood type, A negative.” Dahl dressed, and emerged from the room. “Sit down in this chair please.” She started typing furiously on the computer terminal. “Hmm.”
“What?” Dahl asked.
“What do you think of Brian Muse?”
“Huh? What? I don’t know who Brian Muse is.”
“The name. Can you live with the name?”
“It sounds just a tad dorky.”
“I rather like it. However, let me see if we have another close match.” She typed up some search queries on her terminal. “Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Percy Wilford?”
“Hell no.”
“I didn’t think so either. But those are the only two matches. Pick one. You’re the one that has to live with it.”
“Hello, my name is Brian Muse. Brian Muse, how are you? Muse, Brian Muse. Honestly ma’am? I’m not digging it.”
“His full name is Brian Rexall Muse. Think about it, you could go by Rex Muse.”
“Muse. Rex Muse. That’s Mr. Muse to you. Rex Muse here. Yeah. Okay. I think I can work with that.”
“Good. I like it too.”
“Who is he?”
“An American Peace Corps volunteer. Went missing in the Congo two years ago. No immediate family.”
“Okay.”
She handed him a pen and a blank sheet of paper. “Practice writing your name in cursive. Your signature can be Rex Muse. Your printed name must be Brian R. Muse. Take it over there to that desk. Just keep doing it until you get comfortable with it. I recommend short and unreadable. The important thing is that you are able to replicate it consistently.”
Dahl practiced writing ‘Rex Muse’ several times, filling out nearly both sides of the paper on multiple columns and lines. Finally, it started to flow. “Okay, I think I got it.”
The woman checked his work. “You’re almost there. Start with the last one, and do it a few more times.”
Dahl continued writing, as she filled out paperwork. “Okay, I can’t write this name anymore.”
“That looks good. Now sign this form.” It was a passport application. “Good. Now, come back in exactly one week, and your papers will be ready. Then you will start your assignment.”
“One week? Where am I going to stay?”
She pulled out a stack of bills and counted out ten. “You can find a way to live on one thousand dollars for a week.”
“Thank you!”
“Oh, and one more thing...”
“Yes?”
“You are to go only by Rex Muse from now on, do you understand me?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Good, then study this packet. Learn about yourself. There isn’t much in there to remember, but it’s important that you know it if asked. Oh, and please grow some hair.”
Dahl smiled.
It was clinical. She wasn’t wearing a white nurse’s smock, but she might as well have been. That instance, that happening, that excitement, the release, wasn’t triggered by the woman rendering the exam herself, rather, images of So-Young flashed through his mind at the instant. He could still smell her skin. He could still feel her warmth. He desired her intensely.
But she wasn’t there. She was no place to be found. The spot in the parking garage where she left the Toyota Corolla was empty, except for one thing. His travel bag. He lifted the bag. It was heavy. The Sig Sauer was still in it. So was that radio. And a note.
Alex, you cannot know the pain that I feel, knowing that we could never be together in our lives. I hope you understand. – So-Young
In life, you make decisions. Most of them you make yourself. Some get made for you. She was right though; it was a pipe dream. He had not known her nearly long enough for any options to be placed on the table. Sometimes you just have to grab that one fleeting opportunity before it’s gone. But it was clear that this was never supposed to end up any other way than it already has.
He wrapped the Sig up in a cloth, climbed up a railing and placed it on top of a concrete abutment where it probably wouldn’t be found for another decade. No point in destroying options.
The week flew by quickly. He found a cheap place to stay. At least, it was easier to sleep at night. Dahl had a new lease on life. Upon return to 707 Wilshire Boulevard, Floor 50, he would be a new man. Rex Muse.